I'll Be Home For Christmas
by Snakefire1
Summary: First Air flight 860 is flying low over Montreal. The fight path is wonky, the plane dropping like a stone over the city of a million. From the cockpit: radio silence. What happened? Who is flying the plane? Countless lives may hang in the balance…
1. Chapter 1

**I'll Be Home For Christmas**

By Snakefire

* * *

 **Chapter One**

* * *

Ryan Letourneau was in the middle of his shift. Air Traffic Control was a difficult and stressful job at the best of times, a job that involved talking, typing, and constantly trying to keep the blipping green dots that winked across his radar screen way the fuck away from each other. The ATC tower was usually pitch-dark at night, but at noon in December, it was bright and the weather was cloudy but dry. Thank god for small blessings.

"...Roger. Westjet 435, you are cleared for takeoff on runway 24-L, over." He said, switching away from the outgoing flight and turning his attention to the next plane on the stack- only to notice a new plane popping onto the edges of his radar, and flying at…8000 feet?

That...was really, really low. 'Unapproved flight level' low. That wasn't a standard approach path, meaning that whoever was flying this plane was completely flouting all of the myriad regulations set up around flying in restricted airspace. He flipped a switch, tuning in to talk to this new aircraft that was practically kissing the earth despite being miles from the airport.

"First Air Eight Six Zero, Montreal Approach. What is your approved flight level, over?"

Nothing. Radio static and silence.

"First Air Eight-Six-Zero, do you read, over?"

Nothing. No reply. The plane was worryingly low and getting closer and closer to one of the busiest airspaces in the country.

Why weren't the pilots responding?

"First Air Eight Six Zero, this is Montreal Tower. Come in please."

Nothing.

Ryan sat back in his chair. This…was not good.

There were a couple of reasons a plane went radio silent.

One: Broken radio. But they could probably set up a radio-relay with other pilots…

Ryan tapped a few buttons on his keyboard, looking at another nearby plane.

"Air Canada 167, Montreal tower. Can you radio First Air 860? I think his radio's broken or tuned to the wrong frequency or something."

"Roger that, Montreal Tower. Give us a sec."

A few seconds of silence followed, and Ryan bit his lip. Why were they flying so fucking low?

Then his earpiece crackled to life.

"Montreal Tower, this is Air Canada 167. Nothin'. We tried a couple times, I don't think anybody's home."

"I-That's copied. Thank you."

Ryan sat back in his chair and thought a bit.

A large plane flying low, straight towards Montreal.

Not responding to the radio.

Flight path looked…weird and wobbly. Like the pilot wasn't entirely sure what they were doing.

Ryan reached up on his panel and flipped a small protective case on top of a large red button and pressed it firmly, setting off an alert throughout the tower and sending a signal down miles and miles of wires to the appropriate authorities.

There was only one thing a non-responsive aircraft flying towards Montreal could possibly mean.

The aircraft had been hijacked.

And it was on a collision course with the city of over a million.

"Just in time for fuckin' Christmas…" Muttered Ryan, as he eyed the dot sailing low over Montreal.

* * *

 _A/N: A little Christmas story for you all! This one is going to be short on mindfuck and big on heroics. And also, just kind of short. The goal here is five chapters, the final one posted on Christmas Day/Eve. This one's super short, I'm sorry about that. More to come.  
_

 _Merry Christmas!_

 _Oh, and as always: If you liked it, leave a review! They keep me going and give me the fuel to keep writing._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

* * *

 _Three hours earlier, in Ottawa…_

Nunavut sat back in his first-class seat, messing with his phone, as a steady stream of random civvies filed past him to get into their assigned seats. As usual, he was left wondering if the way the airlines insisted on loading airplanes was really the best way to go about it; It usually took the better part of an hour and never seemed to make any sense. Surely it would be best to load the tail first?

Whatever. Not his to question why, and all that noise.

The territory glanced up from his phone to look around the cabin, specifically the row of "business" class seats right at the front of the plane that were his immediate surroundings. Yeah, they could call it whatever they wanted; it was first class, and there was no two ways about it.

He turned back to his phone and tapped out a quick message to his sister, NWT; something with a little Christmas tree emoji in it. He giggled, imagining his Sister's face scowling down at the little picture; she wasn't too fond of emojis.

A woman in a mink coat swaggered into the cabin, one hand wrapped around the ticket in her hand and the other holding on to a small child, toddling along behind her. The woman stopped in his row, looking at the seats on either side of the aisle, and smiled at Nunavut.

"Sorry, sweetie." She said kindly, "Do you mind if my daughter sits next to you? I tried to get adjacent seats, but, well, the whole plane was stuffed to the gills."

Nunavut smiled and nodded, letting the little girl clamber into the seat next to him. Her mother took the seat directly across from them, still in the aisle, and patiently let the scores of other passengers file onto the plane. The little girl had a Barbie-themed plastic bag, and she looked down, stuffing it under the seat like Nunavut had done with his.

"It's my second flight!" She said with a big smile, hopping up and down excitedly. Nunavut just smiled patiently, feeling every one of his eighteen years. Man, he remembered when flying was still a novelty.

"Yeah? You excited?" he asked with a big grin. The girl beamed up at him with her big brown eyes, bouncing a little in her seat.

"Yeah! We're gonna be home in time for Christmas, and we're gonna see dad, and we're gonna eat qaak, and-"

Nunavut let the little girl chatter on, listening patiently as he looked around the cabin. It was mostly full, and before long, the ground crew in the loading chute was sealing up the aircraft doors and preparing the plane for flight.

The captain's voice crackled over the radio as the plane was pushed away from the gate, and Nunavut settled into his seat, his seatbelt already done up.

 _"Hello to everyone flying with us today aboard First Air 860 with service to Iqaluit! I'm captain Tim Lancaster, and with me in the cockpit today is First Officer Andreas Prodromou, all the way from sunny, sunny Cyprus! We'll be underway in just a few moments. In the meantime, please sit back, relax, and follow along to the safety demonstration by our wonderful flight crew. Thank you very much for flying First Air!"_

Nunavut smiled, a little confused. Captain Lancaster had a striking British accent; he sounded like he should be narrating nature documentaries, not flying. But, nevertheless, they seemed more than qualified, and Nunavut relaxed, fishing his phone out of his pocket and setting it to airplane mode as the flight attendants got in position for their little safety dance.

The voice of the head stewardess rang over the PA, and Nunavut instinctively tuned it out as one of the attendants near him started doing the mandatory safety demonstration. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Not only had he seen all this before, but he had his freaking pilot's license- he knew what all of this was for, and the accidents decades before that had inspired every single word of this talk.

The little girl next to him tugged on his arm suddenly, and Nunavut looked up.

 _"-In the unlikely event of a change in cabin pressure, oxygen masks will automatically drop from the compartment overhead. Pull on the mask to start the flow of oxygen. Place the mask over your mouth and nose-_ (As opposed to what? Putting the mask over your ear?) - _and secure it with the straps. Please ensure your own mask is secure before assisting others. Once the mask is secure, the bag may not inflate. This is normal, and oxygen is still flowing..."_

"Why do we need masks?" The little girl asked, oblivious to the _don't bother the stranger_ look her mother was shooting in her direction.

Nunavut scratched his head. "Uhhhh…"

"Do you know?"

"I- Yeah, I mean, I know. Do you really want me to tell you, though?"

"Yes please!" the girl chirped, bright brown eyes beaming u at him, and Nunavut couldn't say no to that.

Nunavut thought about it as the flight attendants finished their little talk and packed up their kit, the plane continuing to taxi towards the runway. He knew why jet planes had those oxygen masks, even if the planes he was trained to fly didn't need them.

"Uhhh… There's some big concepts…I'll try." He started, unsure of where to begin.

"Uh…Well, the atmosphere isn't always the same…thickness." He started awkwardly, "because air can be heavy if more air is on top of it, pushing it down. Does that make sense?" he said, thinking hard. How the hell do you explain pressure differential to a fifth grader?

"Like pressure?" she said, and Nunavut sighed audibly. Oh thank goodness, the kid had a decent starting point.

"Yeah, like pressure. The pressure of the air way up high in the sky is a lot less than the pressure down here on the ground. You understand, right?"

The little girl nodded a few times, looking at him intently.

"Okay. So, um, people…can't breathe air when it's the wrong pressure. If the pressure is too much, they can die, but if it's not enough, they can't get enough oxygen. So they can pass out. Does that make sense?"

"So the air high in the sky is the wrong pressure to breathe, right?" The little girl said- and then frowned. "Wait...if the air up in the sky is the wrong pressure to breathe, how to we breathe when we're in a plane?"

This kid was no dummy, and Nunavut appreciated it more than he could say.

"Well, they pressurize the air in the plane to make it just right for people to breathe," he said, "But that means that the air inside the plane is under more pressure than the air outside the plane. The air inside the plane doesn't like that; it wants to get out of the plane. So the plane actually inflates when it goes up high- like a balloon with wings. But that's okay, because it's supposed to do that." He said, rather proud of himself for bringing this rambling explanation home.

(Man, this was a long freaking taxi. Were they anywhere near the runway yet?)

"But sometimes-not very often- the plane can get a leak," He said, opting for the slightly more child-friendly "slow leak" scenario, as opposed to the "not so slow leak" AKA "an explosive fucking decompression." That could wait till she was older.

The little girl's eyes went wide, and Nunavut continued.

"When a plane gets a leak, the air inside seeps out. The people wouldn't be able to breathe unless they had oxygen. So that's why we have the masks!" Nunavut finished, smiling proudly at himself. Fuck yeah, he just explained a facet of aviation safety to a ten-year-old.

The little girl nodded, seemingly satisfied with that explanation. Nunavut settled back into his seat as the engines roared up in preparation- they were finally on the runway, and about to take off.

Nunavut closed his eyes as the engines roared and the plane rocketed forwards, the force pushing him-gently- back into his seat. The plane surged forwards, vibrations of rubber on the asphalt below giving way to a smooth soaring into the sky. Nunavut leaned out the window and smiled down at Ottawa, beaming as the plane sailed over the Peace Tower, its flag proudly flapping in the breeze. The sky was blue, the ground was snowy, and the sun was shining- a beautiful day in the nation's capital, and more importantly, a perfect day for flying.

Nunavut pulled out his phone and opened up Minecraft mobile, waiting patiently for it to start up so he could get back to working on his scale recreation of the Iqaluit Legislature.

A little over two hours and he'd have his boots on the ground in his home city, in time for Christmas.

Everything was just as it should be.

* * *

 _A/N: Another chapter on the road to Christmas glory! This story's a lot less about the intrigue and more about the adventure, or something. I don't know. Merry Christmas, hopefully you're enjoying this airplane wank._

 _I uh. I did too much research. Whoopsie daisy._

 _Next part ASAP!_

 _Oh, and as always: leave me a little present? I read and appreciate every single review I get!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

* * *

The atmosphere in the cockpit as the Boeing 737-200 took off into the morning sky was quite relaxed. First officer Prodromou had handled the takeoff, and Captain Lancaster would be handling the landing.

As they sailed up into the clear blue sky, the captain couldn't help but squint; the morning sun was in his eyes, and it was making it really hard to see the panels of switches that hung overhead. Whatever. No big deal.

"So, any plans for Christmas, Andreas?" he asked his co-pilot casually, keeping an eye on their altitude as he put away the takeoff checklist. ATC had just given them clearance for their requested heading, and pretty soon they'd be out of Montreal airspace.

"Oh, you know, the usual," Andreas said with a smile, the sunny Mediterranean man projecting an air of good cheer, "Home to visit my family. You?"

"If I can get the time off, I might take a hop across the pond to see my relatives, but I'll probably just stay in Iqaluit. Nothing beats a white Christmas, eh?"

Andreas laughed. "Oh, yes. If you say so. I personally prefer spending Christmas Day on the beach with my toes in the sand, getting a tan."

"I'm English. I didn't even know the sun existed until I moved to Canada."

Andreas was just about to respond, when an alarm started insistently beeping in the cockpit.

* * *

In the cabin, just behind the cockpit, Nunavut stepped out of the washroom and closed the door behind him. Airplane bathrooms were always the worst; cramped and noisy, and Nunavut liked neither of those. Plus the roaring of the toilet when you flushed- it always gave him the anxious feeling that the plane was about to explode. No matter how many classes he took or hours he flew, something about that damn airplane toilet spooked him every time.

Bush planes. Bush planes were so much better. Take off and land on even the crappiest runway, always fly low where you can see the sights, freedom to fly loops and tumbles if you wanted to…Nunavut shook his head. People were stupid. Going fast was more important than the journey, that was what these jetliners said.

He looked towards the cockpit door, smiling at one of the flight attendants who was preparing the first-class breakfast and coffee for the drinks cart. The cockpit door caught his attention again; it was sealed shut, panelled to match the rest of the aircraft, but Nunavut knew it was a lot stronger than it appeared. Ever since 9/11, cockpit doors had been reinforced and engineered to be bulletproof and axeproof and what-have-you proof, all in the name of stopping hijackings. This particular cockpit door had a shiny keypad with glowing blue buttons by the handle; to let the flight attendants in if they needed to, he supposed.

Nunavut ambled back to his seat, scooting by the little girl- Annie, she'd said, deciding to introduce herself as the plane climbed. He sat down and buckled back up, wiping some residual damp from the airplane sink on his pants. Boy, that annoyed NWT when he did that- and also, wiping his nose on his sleeve. She always acted like that was the worst thing in the world.

Annie was absorbed in her mother's Ipad, watching a video about castles in Europe, but kid-friendly- no kid needed to know about drawing and quartering and that kind of stuff. Gross. Nunavut, sadly, had been spared none of the details, because England had a bad habit of showing up, getting drunk with Canada, and rambling on about the "old days" at great length. Nunavut shuddered.

He pulled out his phone to amuse himself until the drinks cart came by- he'd probably have a soda, another thing that would annoy his older sister- and switched on Minecraft.

And then, without warning, four bright yellow oxygen masks tumbled out of the overhead compartment. The sound of their clattering had Nunavut momentarily stunned- several people shrieked in surprise, but as soon as he'd collected his wits again, he didn't hesitate or ask questions.

The territory wasn't tall enough to reach, so he undid the seatbelt, standing up and grabbing a mask for himself. He pressed it to his face and guided the strap behind his head, making sure it was securely in place before turning his attention Annie next to him. She was reaching, but there wasn't any strength in the reach- so Nunavut grabbed one of the masks, pulling it down and guiding it to her face. He carefully pulled the strap over her head, making sure it was snugly in place.

Annie was looking at him with big, wide eyes full of fear.

Nunavut looked around the cabin, relieved to see that basically everyone had put their masks on. The kid's mom in the seats across from them was looking at him with an expression of relief; she'd been too far away to help her own child.

Okay. So, masks were on. Next, according to the things he'd read in the pilot training manual, the plane should immediately begin to descend.

That was the protocol. Nunavut glanced up at the unmarked overhead bin; inside of there was either an oxygen generator or a line connecting to a supply in the belly of the plane. Either way, the air the passengers were breathing was a finite resource, and they needed to get down to a lower altitude ASAP.

The air was thicker at those lower altitudes, and the masks wouldn't be necessary. So the immediate response to the masks deploying should have been a rapid descent. Which of course meant that everyone in the cabin should of course fasten their seat belts.

…Why hadn't the captain turned on the seat belt sign?

* * *

The beeping was loud and insistent as ever, and the two pilots were baffled.

"…The takeoff config warning?" the Captain said, brows furrowed. The beeping continued to ring through the cockpit, and he continued to squint up at the control panel. That made no sense. That alarm wasn't ever supposed to sound while the plane was in the air; only when it was on the ground.

Andreas set the autopilot, and reached back for a book on the wall.

"I'm going to check the COM," he said, flipping open the Cockpit Operation Manual and thumbing through it until he found the entry for the Takeoff Config Warning.

"I- Yeah. That's…Good idea." The captain said, slowly, haltingly. He looked at their altitude; it seemed to blur around; was it 3000 or 30000? He didn't need glasses, what-?

"It, uh, I-" Andreas's voice was hazy and confused as he tried to get to grips with the contents of the COM. "I- Is the pressurization panel set to auto?"

"No..." The captain unbuckled his seatbelt and took off his headset, feeling like his brain was swimming through treacle. He got up, shakingly, haltingly, stumbling towards the row of switches and gauges on the back wall. "The- equipment cooling-"

Andreas blinked a few times, staring down at the words on the page before him, watching them shift around. What-?

He wasn't drunk, what-? Drunk…Drunk with his girlfriend on the beach…Just a few days and-

What?

Andreas sat up, looking back. The captain had fallen on the floor facedown, and he felt like he was supposed to, to do something, but,

He sucked in a breath. What was he supposed to do? He flipped the COM to C, for "Collapsed Captain"...Wasn't there. Oh. Was…he was supposed to fly, wasn't he? But…

The control column seemed so far away, and Andreas reached-

His hand seemed to lose all strength, eyes slowly blinking as they sank lower and lower. His arm sank back to his side, feeling like it was full of sand. The world was a slowly flashing sliver of light between his heavy, heavy eyelids, until finally Andreas could keep his eyes open no longer.

Everything went black.

* * *

The plane still wasn't descending.

Nunavut looked at the kid in the seat next to him, then around the cabin. The plane was still flying straight and level, just like if it was…still on autopilot.

Did…had the pilots just deployed the masks accidentally? But if they had, they'd make an announcement, there would be instructions to the cabin crew and passengers to stay calm, an explanation of what had happened.

Nunavut swallowed nervously, looking around again. There had to be another pilot on board who was going to speak up. Had to be. This- there wouldn't be…He couldn't be the only licensed pilot on board who had an inkling of what might have happened.

Nunavut sank into his seat, stomach churning. They still weren't descending. They still weren't going down. Down to where the air was thick and breathable without masks. They were at cruising altitude, and that just…would not do.

He looked forward- the flight attendants were sitting in their jumpseats with bottled oxygen, looking just as confused as he was. So…they didn't know what was happening either.

He was probably just being paranoid. Maybe the pilots had just flipped the switch and not noticed. That could happen, right? There were so many buttons in the cockpit of a modern jetliner, he'd be amazed if anyone knew what even half of them did.

He reached under the seat in front of him, pulling out his backpack and fishing around for a pencil. Okay. Okay. So. He would…set up a contugenc...Contiguence...Contiguency... In-Case-Of-Emergency plan? One of those. The plan in case the worst happened. One of those plans.

Five minutes. Exactly. He would give the flight crew five minutes to go through the procedure and start their descent. Radioing ATC could take time, he knew from experience. So maybe ATC was busy, and the pilots had some other issue, and maybe he was just being paranoid.

He pulled out the pencil he'd been looking for and looked at his phone. As he whipped his head around, the edge of the yellow cup-shaped mask dug into the bridge of his nose- wow, that was seriously not comfortable, holy fuck.

The raven-haired boy flipped his phone to the timer app and set it for five minutes, then hit start. It had been, what, a minute? A minute had elapsed, maybe?

They had twelve minutes to get down to altitudes where the air was breathable before everyone on the plane passed out, and then suffered hypoxia. And the longer hypoxia went on for, the greater the risk of permanent brain damage became.

One eye stayed on the timer slowly ticking down, and Nunavut grabbed the airsickness bag from in front of him, slapping it down on the tray table and starting to write. Because. Because the cockpit door was locked, and if his timer went off, then he needed to get into that cockpit. No ifs, ands, or buts.

And the only way to get into that cockpit was through the keypad. And the only people on the plane who knew the code were the flight crew. And the flight crew might not open the cockpit unless he explained the situation and produced his pilot's license. And then lied to everyone that he was 100% qualified to fly a big thing with jet engines.

He stopped writing the note to fish out his license. He couldn't drive and didn't have an ID card, so to board aircraft, he usually used his pilot's license. He pulled out the slim blue book and set it aside.

Nunavut continued to write his note in earnest, trying to do his best to explain his request to the cabin crew.

And all the while, the timer on his phone continued to tick down.

* * *

 _A/N: I'm aware this is no Hydrogen Sulfide, but hey man; I wanted to write something to kick my writing funk. I write for the joy of it, to tell the kind of stories I want to read. I hope your holidays are going well, and you're enjoying this Christmas story no matter what holiday you celebrate._

 _As always, leave me a little present in the comments? I read and treasure them all!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

* * *

Nunavut's cellphone timer rang through the cabin like a sonic hand grenade. Everyone jerked out of their trance all at once, all eyes turning to face the source of the noise up in first class. For his part, Nunavut just tapped the icon to kill the alarm, eyes scanning over the note he'd scribbled on the airsickness bag.

The plane still had not descended. At all.

He sucked in a deep breath. Okay.

Was he actually going to do this? Like, was there any actual danger? It might have been an accidental deployment of the masks. That was fully possible, there was a switch in the cockpit that could drop them. It was entirely possible that the pilots, fumbling for some other setting, had accidentally dropped the masks.

Nunavut shook his head. No. That…There was something wrong about this situation. He folded up his tray table, clutching his blue pilot's license and the hastily-scribbled note in his free hand, undid his seatbelt, and stood up.

The other occupants of first class were looking at him, and there was muffled whispering throughout the plane as people tried to talk through the yellow masks on their faces. Nunavut scooted carefully past Annie until he was almost in the aisle, the mask tugging him back towards his seat. That clear, thin tube was the only thing standing between him and falling unconscious in less than a minute, and he was about to take it off.

Okay. He was going to need both hands for this…He folded the note around his pilot's license and stuffed both into his pocket, then sucked in a deep breath as he stared straight ahead at the cockpit.

Nunavut undid the straps carefully, slipping the mask off his face- but as soon as his head was free of the strap, he kept the cup pressed over his mouth and nose, sucking in one breath, and two, and three, and here we go…

Nunavut let the cup slip from his fingers as he lunged for the spare oxygen mask one row of seats up and across the aisle, grabbing it in his hands and sucking in a deep breath from it. Then he darted diagonally to the next mask, taking a couple of breaths from each. "Monkey-swinging", the flight attendants called what he was doing, zig-zagging his way forwards in the cabin until he was in the frontmost row of seats and staring straight at one of the flight attendants in her jumpseat.

The flight attendant- Rebecca?- had a portable bottle of oxygen on her face, and when she saw Nunavut standing there and pressing a yellow cup to his face, she immediately unbuckled her belt, getting up and wobbling a bit unsteadily over to the crazy young man, hell-bent on telling him to get back to his seat.

"I need you help!" Nunavut said through the mask as soon as she was close, shoving his note and his license into the woman's chest. She fumbled a bit, oxygen bottle under one arm and two pieces of very important paper suddenly in her hands.

"Sir, you need to go back to your seat-" She began, shoving Nunavut's note and his license straight back at him. To her shock, Nunavut shook his head and scowled, the effect somewhat ruined by the yellow cup he was pressing over his mouth and nose.

"No!" He snapped, "I- Look, we don't have a lot of time. Just read the stupid note!" He panted as soon as he was done his little outburst, feeling a bit dizzy and light-headed. If he was right, they didn't have a lot of time.

The woman frowned and ran her eyes over the note, quirking an eyebrow. She glanced over at the blue booklet, eyes widening when she saw the markings on the cover indicating that it was indeed a Canadian pilot's license. She flipped it open, staring down at the front page, and then glancing at the kid standing impassively in front of her.

Nunavut tapped his foot impatiently.

"C'mon, c'mon, we don't have a lot of time-"

"Is this some kind of a joke?"

Nunavut growled in exasperation, feeling every single one of his eighteen years. You know what sucked? Humans. Humans sucked. You know what was great? Bears. Bears were great.

The flight attendant was giving him the suspicious side-eye, and Nunavut did not have time for this crap. He had mere minutes to get this plane back down to an altitude where everyone could breathe, and this woman was standing between him and saving over a hundred lives.

"Miss, please- We're- WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE IF YOU DON'T LET ME INTO THAT COCKPIT!" Nunavut shouted, scared and confused and totally lost as to how to convince this stupid, stupid grownup to just _open that door_ and _get out of his way._

"What-"

"I'M EIGHTEEN! LOOK AT MY LICENSE! I'M EIGHTEEN, OKAY!? I'M A GROWNUP! THIS PLANE HAS SOME KIND OF A PRESSURIZATION PROBLEM, THE MASKS HAVE DROPPED, AND _THE PILOTS AREN'T DESCENDING._ **THE PILOTS ARE UNCONSCIOUS, AND IF YOU DON'T LET ME IN THAT COCKPIT** **WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!"**

Nunavut wobbled unsteadily as soon as he'd finished yelling, dimly aware that his outburst had been audible throughout the cabin. All the conversations that had been happening in the background had gone almost completely silent, and when he turned around to look, all he could see was an ocean of terrified faces.

The flight attendant looked down at the note, and then at the license, and then at Nunavut.

"You," She said sharply, "Are to stay _right_ where you are, am I making myself clear, young man? I will go and check the cockpit. I'm sure the pilots are fine, and this is just a misunderstanding." She handed Nunavut his license, walking away from him and clearly annoyed.

You could have heard a pin drop in the cabin. The only sound was the roar of the engines, and then the beeping of the keypad as the flight attendant keyed in the passcode to open the cockpit and stepped inside.

Nunavut sucked in a deep breath. He was wrong. This was just a bug misunderstanding. The pilots were okay and annoyed. The pressure was normal. He was wrong. He had to be wrong. Please let him be wrong. Please. Oh god please.

The flight attendant screamed.

She ran back out, a flurry of limbs clutching onto her oxygen bottle, and frantically ran towards Nunavut. She ripped open one of the overhead baggage compartments, shaking hands frantically pulling out a spare oxygen tank and mask, and thrusting it into the territory's terrified hands.

Nunavut's eyes went wide. His chest was full of that horrible icy cold sensation that he got whenever something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

 _He was right._

He gripped onto the bottle of oxygen in his hand, letting go of the yellow plastic cup and letting it drop. There was some frantic fumbling as he struggled to get the plastic mask on the bottle attached to his face, and the flight attendant helpfully turned the wheel on the bottle to start the flow. She helped him get the straps over his head, eyes wide and hands shaking, and stepped out of his way.

"They're out cold." She whispered, terrified, "I- you've flown a plane like this before, right?"

Nunavut shivered. He turned and looked her dead in the eyes.

"No. I haven't."

And before she could stop him, he charged his twelve-year-old body towards the cockpit, oxygen bottle in his hands and pilot's license in his pocket.

The cockpit wasn't so much in shambles as it was frozen in time. Both pilots were passed out, the captain sprawled on the floor, and Nunavut just shivered. It was morning, it was daytime, thank god, thank the good lord and all the saints. He was licensed to fly in these conditions; if this had been a night flight, everyone aboard the plane would have been completely screwed.

Nunavut hopped over the pilot and managed to worm his way into the captain's massive chair, sinking in to the well-used leather and immediately realizing he couldn't see out the fucking window.

He wasn't tall enough to see out the fucking windshield. So that meant wasting forty precious seconds fumbling around for the controls to adjust the seat, which he found along the side where there weren't any controls, and then more time wasted lifting the seat up and forward and moving the rudder pedals so his child-sized body could operate a 737 designed to be flown by grown-ass adults with licenses to fly more than just propeller-driven bush planes.

Nunavut swallowed nervously. He as not trained to fly aircraft this large. He was not trained to **land** aircraft this large. He didn't know what half these buttons did. He-

He needed to put on the headset. So he could talk to ATC. He found it lying on the center console, right next to where the co-pilot was laying slumped, and Nunavut snatched it up and fumbled it on. It didn't fit- it wouldn't adjust to be small enough- but it would have to do, and hopefully ATC would be able to hear him.

He grabbed the control column between his legs- the "stick"- and pressed the red button on it. The button that was in convenient thumb reach for a grown man and a terrifying reach for a kid with the body of a twelve-year-old.

"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! First Air 860 heavy, I am declaring an emergency! Request vector to the nearest airport!" he almost yelled into the little microphone, heart cantering in his chest.

Silence. Radio silence.

He glanced down at the radio. It was set to the wrong frequency for any of the airports in their vicinity. In fact, it was probably still set for Ottawa's airport. And considering they were a good ways into Quebec, that was worse than useless.

Nunavut was on his own.

He took a deep breath. Okay. Okay. He was out of time, out of options, and nobody could hear him scream.

Nunavut gripped the control column and shoved it forwards, much harder than he needed to- he was surprised when it yielded easily, and then terrified when the plane pitched _far too sharply_ downwards. His stomach lurched as the plane pitched downwards, the blue sky almost entirely vanishing and the white ground thirty thousand feet below swallowing almost all of it up.

The Inuit boy screamed. _HOW THE FUCK WAS HE SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT 737'S HAD POWER STEERING?! HIS AIRCRAFT HAD CABLES! HE HAD TO BE BRUTALLY ROUGH WITH THE STICK TO GET ANYTHING TO HAPPEN WHEN THE AIRCRAFT WAS CONTROLLED BY CABLES!_

He took a deep breath, forcing the panic away, falling back on his bush pilot training. Nunavut pulled the stick back, ignoring the terrified screaming coming from the cabin, slowly rolling it back to even out the dive. Okay. Okay.

The plane slowly rolled out of the dive without creaking or cracking, and Nunavut huffed out a terrified breath. Alright. He was learning things about his aircraft, namely that he didn't need to be as forceful as he was expecting with the controls.

He glanced at their altitude- they'd only been in that death-dive for a few seconds, and already they'd dropped five thousand feet. Their current altitude was 25000 feet. Nunavut shuddered. That was still way too high for his tastes.

Nunavut tuned out the terrified sounds coming from the cabin, focusing on his instruments. The autopilot, as a helpful message in red text informed him, was disconnected. That was to be expected- he'd put the plane in a sudden dive, and Boeing built their planes in such a way that the autopilot didn't question the pilot, ever. Which was good for Nunavut, because if he had a flight computer suddenly fighting with him about his decisions, he'd probably start screaming in rage.

"Stupid- I hate all of this!" Nunavut ranted under his breath. "This is stupid, stupid, stupid! Can I say the F-word? I think I want to say the F-word. Why me. Why!?"

He took another deep breath and pressed the stick down, slowly, gradually, glancing between his altimeter and the view outside the windshield. This dive was a lot gentler; still a lot rougher and less refined than either of the two unconscious pilots would have managed, but in Nunavut's defence he was a _child_ flying a _737._

He watched as the plane's computerized altitude gauge rolled back, ticking down rapidly as they soared downwards. There was screams of terror coming from the cabin, and honestly everyone else on the plane could shut the fuck up.

Ten thousand feet. He could level off at ten thousand feet.

The dive seemed to go on forever. Nunavut's heart was in his throat, trembling hands holding on to a control column meant for men twice his size. Adults. Grownups. He was a baby by _human_ standards; what the hell was he doing?

The words of his sort-of brother Labrador floated to him as the plane rocketed towards the ground, Nunavut's warm brown eyes flicking between his altitude indicator and the blue and brown of his attitude indicator.

A warning horn sounded through the cockpit, and Nunavut yelped, but didn't flinch. OVERSPEED! OVERSPEED! The warning light flashed on his console, and Nunavut couldn't take it any more.

 _"SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!"_ he screamed in Inuktitut, eyes locked on the altimeter, **_"I'M TRYING TO SAVE YOUR LIFE YOU_** **STUPID** **FUCKING** **PLANE!"**

He needed to level off, despite being five thousand feet above his target altitude. As they dove, they gained airspeed, as gravity pulled this stupid metal bird back towards the earth. Nunavut pulled the same move as he had previously, rolling back the control column slowly and gradually to level the plane off. His Attitude Indicator rolled back until the brown and blue were roughly equal, a slow process that took almost a minute.

Finally the warning horn shut off, and Nunavut had a second to catch his breath.

…He couldn't hear any more noise from the cabin.

Oh, no.

 _The twelve minutes were up._

Nunavut pressed the stick forward again, a renewed determination in his hands, and the plane pitched forwards again with a sickening lurch. He didn't know what the fuck he was doing, just that he had to get DOWN to a sane altitude NOW.

Five thousand feet to go.

Four thousand.

Three thousand.

Two thousand.

One thousand.

And Nunavut dove a little bit farther before rolling the plane back to a steady altitude, huffing out a terrified breath.

They were now cruising at 9056 feet.

He should get lower. He could get lower. But…domestic traffic. And…if something else went wrong, he needed altitude more than anything else. If he stalled but he was high enough, he could recover.

Or, or something. It- didn't matter. He glanced over at the large screen with the GPS display, taking it all in. It was- it was a lot. He could kind of see the other aircraft, or at least, other aircraft with transponders. But. This was the perfect place to turn the plane around.

He needed to- head back. To Ottawa, or...Montreal. He needed to land in Montreal. They had- they had a big long runway, they had…fire engines, and ambulances, and-

He needed to turn this plane around.

Nunavut took a deep breath, readjusted the control column, and pressed down on the rudder pedal- a little bit.

The control column could turn the plane, but the rudder was a much, much, much better idea. He kept flicking his eyes between the three instruments he was intimately familiar with- attitude, altitude, and the GPS screen.

The turn was a long, slow one, and as they banked to the right, Nunavut began to hear gasps and noises from the cabin again. He shuddered out a sigh of relief, eyes flicking down to his instruments. Okay. They weren't rolling. They weren't diving. Altitude was- well, was as steady as he could make it, considering the autopilot was turned off and he was hand-flying a fucking 737.

As soon as the turn was completed, he released the pressure on the rudder pedal, feeling a small shake as the plane straightened itself out. A quick glance at the GPS confirmed they were pointed back down south, and with that, the young pilot could focus his attention on the second order of business.

Nunavut pressed the red button on his control column again, in the desperate hope that someone, anyone could hear him.

"MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! First Air Eight Six Zero, declaring an emergency. Can anyone hear me?! Please! CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME?!"

All he got in reply was radio silence.

And the plane continued to soar, mutely, towards some of the most crowded airspace in Canada.

* * *

 _A/N: Oh jeez it's heating up here eh_

 _Will Nunavut be able to land!? Will there be a midair plane crash?! Will Aircraft stop being miracles of technology, science, and engineering?! The answers are keep reading, keep reading, and no, of course not._

 _Hope your Christmas is going well and I hope you're enjoying this little holiday treat._

 _As usual, if you liked it, hated it, or want me to fly a 737 into space, leave a review! 'Tis the season of giving after all!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

* * *

 _Meanwhile, at Montreal ATC…_

Ryan Letourneau stared at his screen. The plane in question wasn't responding to any calls from anyone, and it was continuing to approach their airspace.

That left him with only one option.

He waved his superior over and pointed out the green dot slowly tracking across the screen, heading right towards the airport. There wasn't any traffic in its immediate vicinity, on account of its bizarrely low flight level, but that would soon change.

"He's heading straight for the airport," the ATController said, "I've tried contacting him multiple times, tried getting a radio relay set up, nothing and nothing. He doesn't look like he's going to stop, either. You think it's…?"

The man let the word hang. His superior knew what he was implying. But this was a bit unusual for a hijacking; usually hijackers allowed pilots to communicate with ATC, if only so they could make whatever demands they wanted to make. This kind of radio silence implied a different sort of hijacking, with far darker intent.

His superior, an older woman with greying hair, set her jaw.

"I'll…I'll put in the call to scramble some jets. We need some birds in the air to get a close look at this thing. Continue monitoring and let me know if the situation changes." She said. And with that, the woman turned away and marched to her office to make the call to the military.

Ryan sat back in his seat.

If the military found something fishy about that aircraft, they might well get the order to shoot it out of the sky.

With all those people on board.

Ryan rubbed at his forehead and stared at that dot, reaching for his keyboard so he could start diverting flights away from it.

"C'mon, buddy…" he muttered, eyes locked on the dot, "Say something, would ya?"

* * *

 _Shortly thereafter…_

Nunavut was keeping one eye on his GPS and one eye on his windshield. Pierre Trudeau International Airport was dead ahead, although he still had some ways to go. He was still cruising low over the farmland below, not even over the city's outlying suburbs yet. But soon. He'd be there very, very soon.

It was then that a warning horn on the console started to squawk, startling the boy out of his trance and back into full alertness.

"TRAFFIC. TRAFFIC." The horn squawked, and then a heart-stopping pause later, **"CLIMB…CLIMB…"**

Nunavut's heart seized. That horn was called TCAS- Traffic Collision Avoidance System. The plane had automatically detected that another plane was within a dangerous proximity to his own. "Traffic" was just the heads up; the mantra of "Climb….climb…climb…" that it was still fucking repeating was the instructions for what he was supposed to do to avoid a collision.

His eyes flicked to the altimeter, and he shuddered.

Still maintaining 9500-odd feet. He _couldn't_ climb. If he started climbing, everyone on the plane would pass out again, and the pilots might suffer permanent brain damage.

"CLIMB….CLIMB….CLIMB…."

"I CAN'T!" Nunavut screamed in a panic. But he could and he had to. TCAS was God in the cockpit; if it sounded, you hopped to and followed instructions, or else you risked a fiery wreck.

Trouble was, Nunavut's little prop plane, the one he was used to, didn't even have the system installed on it at all. It was small, and didn't carry more than two people and some gear, so it wasn't required that he carry an expensive transponder on board. And that was a problem, because he couldn't for the life of him remember at what rate he was supposed to climb; only that he had to.

"Just- I'll go slow. Slow and steady, slow and steady wins the race, wins the race, sloooow and steady wins the race…" He sing-songed to himself as he slowly pulled back on the control column, feeling the plane slowly lurch upwards. His heart was hammering in his throat- climbing higher than 10,000 feet meant they wouldn't have enough oxygen to breathe, and people would start suffocating again. Fuck! Shit! All those words NWT wouldn't usually let him say!

"TRAFFIC, TRAFFIC. CLIMB…CLIMB….CLIMB…"

"I'M CLIMBING! I'M CLIMBING! WHERE ARE THEY!? WHY AREN'T THEY DESCENDING!?"

His answer soared out in front of him, streaking past his windshield and assuming a perilous position a few hundred meters before the nose of the airplane.

An F-35. Nunavut didn't even need to look to know that it had the RCAF roundel painted on it, didn't even need to hear their voices to immediately feel a hundred times better about the situation.

The Air Force was here. The Air Force was here and they would help him land his plane! Relief flooded his body; relief that the boys in the black helmets were here. Labrador was a military pilot; he trusted these guys with his life.

The F-35 was a terrifying mass of triangles and weapons, weighted down with guided missiles on its wings and a nose that raked to a point. To Nunavut, it looked like an avenging angel, here to help him get back to Terra Firma safe and sound.

It slowed its thrust, appearing to back up so it was flying in tandem with Nunavut's window.

Pilot looked at pilot, the man in his black glass helmet waving cooly at the boy in the chair.

Nunavut risked taking one hand off the stick, fingers feeling numb- (wow, he'd been gripping it really tight…) and waved at the pilot, frantically.

"HELLO! HI!" he shouted into his microphone, grabbing the stick again and jabbing at the red button to talk. "HI! CAN YOU HEAR ME!?"

Nothing. Nothing but static. Nunavut's heart sank.

If…if he couldn't talk to the pilots…

What if they thought he was a hijacker?!

What if they thought he was trying to crash the plane into Montreal?!

 _What if they shot him out of the sky?_

Nunavut started to panic. He could hear gasping from the cabin, and he waved at the pilot again, pointing downwards frantically and praying to God and Jesus and Sedna and anyone else that was listening that they would understand.

He slowly pushed the stick forwards, jabbing at the red Push-to-talk button with his other hand and continuing to shout into the void.

* * *

Corporal Peterson had been with the Canadian Forces for fifteen years. He'd served in Afghanistan, he'd seen combat, and this was a first even for him.

That was unmistakably a _child,_ or at the very least an incredibly short pilot, at the controls of that aircraft. He waved to them, hoping to get some kind of response, because all attempts at radio communication weren't working. What he was doing now was foolhardy and dangerous, getting this close to another aircraft; but if they were able to establish communication with the jet, it was a risk that was worth it.

The kid in the cockpit started waving back- frantically. Peterson waved himself in response, watching as the kid started gesturing downwards just as frantically. Okay, he needed to descend?

"Harpoon Six Niner-Niner, do you have a visual on crew the 737?" a voice in his ear crackled, his callsign snapping across the airwaves.

"Copy that, I have a visual. Plane does not appear to be hijacked. You're not gonna believe this, but there's either a child in that cockpit or a midget. We have contact, there is movement. Pilot has indicated-"

"Harpoon Six-Niner-Niner, repeat- did you say there was a _child_ flying that plane?!"

"Copy that, Montreal. There is a child or a small human being at the controls of that aircraft."

"That's…copied. Have they responded on any frequency?"

"Negative, negative."

Several seconds passed by in silence- well, aside from the roaring of the F-35's massive engines. And that moment of quiet where he wasn't talking gave the corporal a minute to think.

Why would the crew- or whoever it was that had replaced them- not be responding on the radio?

Whoever was in the cockpit certainly wanted to communicate. They'd been waving frantically enough. They were probably screaming into their headset in whatever frequency the radio was set to-

"Montreal Tower, Harpoon Six-Niner-Niner. What airport did First Air Eight Six Zero take off from, over?"

"Uhhhh…" there was a sound of shuffling papers as whoever it was that was on the radio turned around. He could hear some muttering, and there was a brief pause where it sounded like someone was fussing with their phone.

"Uh, Ottawa. Over."

"Copied. What's the takeoff frequency for Ottawa's tower, over? The pilot's radio might be stuck on his takeoff frequency. I don't think he knows how to change it, over."

Another few seconds of silence, during which the 737 in front of him slowly levelled off- based on his own altimeter, they were currently flying at about 9000 feet. The pilot clearly liked that altitude.

"Harpoon Six-Niner-Niner, the departure frequency for Airport Yankee Oscar Whiskey is One-Two-Eight decimal One-Seven-Five."

"That's copied. Standby."

The corporal started to fiddle with his own radio, adjusting the knobs to the stated frequency-

"HELLO?! HELLO?! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?!"

A child's voice. A **CHILD'S** voice unmistakeably crackled through the earpiece inside his helmet, and the Afghanistan war veteran thought for a moment that he might well have been dreaming. That was a god damned child at the controls of that aircraft. A child. A _scared_ child.

A child that sounded a lot like his own son, actually.

"First Air Eight Six Zero, this is…This is Corporal Peterson. We read you, over." He could have and should have given the kid his callsign, but. Something about that scared little voice was crying out for a human connection, screaming for contact with another person.

The sound that came through the radio almost bordered on a sob. The kid gasped and made a choked noise, like he couldn't believe that someone was talking to him, that he could hear someone's voice.

"C- Co- This is Fir-first Air Eight Six Zero. May-Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. Pilots- Pilots are out cold. I have a pressurization problem or something _I don't freaking know._ My aircraft is flyable, but I don't- Do not want to go above flight level One Zero. Please- I can't do this. I'm sorry. Please tell Montreal Tower. I- I need help."

"That's copied, First Air Eight Six Zero. Will relay to Montreal at once. I do need to change frequency to do that, so I'm gonna go quiet for a minute. Is that alright?" The corporal's tone shifted from businesslike to fatherly. There was a child at the controls of that aircraft, and he sounded terrified and overwhelmed. He clearly knew the jargon, but whatever training he had was failing him. Right now that pilot needed some comforting.

"That's…copied. I'm…Yes, please do that. Just- _please don't leave me._ Over."

"Confirm. We aren't going anywhere. Standby."

The corporal pressed a button on his radio to save that last frequency to a corresponding number, so he could flick back to it without having to memorize it or enter it. With that, he jabbed another button to switch back to the Montreal ATC frequency.

"Montreal Tower, this is Harpoon Six-Niner-Niner. I have contact with First Air Eight Six Zero. The pilot is declaring mayday and requests immediate vector to the airport. He's also requested we escort him in, over."

"Copy that Harpoon Six Niner-Niner. What is the nature of the emergency, over?"

"He said it was a pressurization problem, he's not sure. He's just a kid, I don't think he knows how to fly that aircraft. He sure knows how to fly something if he hasn't smashed it into the ground- looks like he's hand-flying it, too."

"Roger that, we will clear the airspace…Can you get him onto our frequency?"

"Confirm, I'll try. Switching over to talk to him again. Standby."

Before the corporal hit the button, he grabbed a small pad of paper and a pen he had stuffed into a little box in his cockpit for just such an occasion. He scribbled down the frequency for Montreal's ATC onto the little scratch pad and stuffed the pen away.

That done, the corporal jabbed the button on his radio to switch back to the Ottawa departures frequency, and came back to nervous singing.

The pilot had the button clamped down and was singing a song to himself in a language the corporal couldn't identify. It certainly wasn't English.

"First Air Eight Six Zero, this is Corporal Peterson. I have contact Montreal Tower. Can you switch over to Montreal's tower frequency, over?"

The singing stopped, and the voice on the other side trembled nervously.

"I, Uh, I can try. I don't…this plane is so huge. I don't…don't know what frequency, over."

"Copied. Can you see you radio? Do you know how to use it?"

"Yes. I mean- Yes. I can figure it out. What's the frequency? Um, over."

"Roger. The frequency is One. One. Nine. Decimal. Nine. I say again: One. One. Nine. Decimal. Nine. Read back, over."

The kid's voice was shaky as he slowly repeated the digits he'd just been given. So was his plane- it seemed to tremble along with its pilot. The radio then went dead silent, and the corporal jabbed the button for Montreal's tower frequency.

Ten seconds turned into a minute. Turned into two minutes. The corporal swallowed.

What if the kid had just gotten stuck between two frequencies and taken away his ability to communicate with anyone?

That was…not a nice thought.

The corporal held his breath as he continued to fly his massive machine towards civilian airspace.

"-Hello? Hello? Corporal? Corporal, do you read me, over!"

The corporal nearly laughed. "Copy that, First Air Eight Six Zero. We read you. We're gonna get you home safe and sound. I suggest you talk to Montreal directly, they can advise you better than I can. Do you still want an escort, over?"

"Yes. Please. Please stay with me. Over."

"Wilco. Over."

The corporal glanced down. He could see homes and big box stores and a lot of snow on the ground below him. They were getting awfully close to the airport.

The corporal could fly in with this kid all the way to the ground. But he couldn't land the plane, and he didn't have any pearls of advice for how to land a 737. From the sound of it, the kid knew how to fly; but this plane? It took years for pilots to accrue enough skill before they could touch the controls in a simulator, let alone landing the real deal. This kid was going to have to do it, first time out, all on his own.

As they flew low over the city, the corporal took his thumb off the red button.

"God, kid," he muttered, "What a fine mess you've got yourself into…"

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _I'M SO SORRY_

 _If you're used to my writing by now you should know that I have wrist problems and a busy schedule and Christmas fics and Halloween fics, which are generally supposed to be delivered in a timely fashion, can erm. Bleed. Into other months. Or years, as the case may be._

 _So I haven't abandoned this or West Wind or any of my other stuff. Look, I 'm getting a week off here soon and a long plane flight to settle back and do some writing._

 _Please forgive my long absence. I like this story and I intend to finish it._

 _Regardless, if you liked it, hated it, or whatever else, leave a comment! I read and treasure all of them._


End file.
